


from a yharnamite’s deteriorating mind

by littlemarbles



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Death, Diary/Journal, Injury, Insanity, Insight, Isolation, Murder, Nausea, Sort Of, i don't know how to tag this please help me for the love of god, i just wanted to write what i wanted to read and i dunno how to categorize it, mentions and descriptions of illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24472939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemarbles/pseuds/littlemarbles
Summary: Useless thoughts and ramblings of an unfortunate soul. Read them?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	from a yharnamite’s deteriorating mind

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is. I started writing it a long while ago, and now it is finished. Interpret it however you'd like. I just needed to write something.

The growling of beasts and heavy breathing of the hunters keeps me awake. Keeps me wondering if this night is different from the others. Aren’t hunters the quiet type, or have I lost it? You don’t hear them whoop and howl while rusty saws tear through monsters screaming just as loud. Then again, I suppose there’s no harm finding joy in your work. More power be with you if risking your life puts a smile on your face.

So long as the bars hold, and I stay quiet, I should be fine. The hunters need only do their job, and all will be fine before I know it. Before we all know it.

* * *

Even all the way up here, their voices ring clear as day. “Away, away!” they shout, as if anyone without their humanity would listen. There’s always a pile of fresh corpses in the end, of beast and man alike.

It’s strange. More often than not, there’s a survivor of these attacks. It’s the same person each time, I can tell. I know they’re the same.

What rotten luck that one has.

* * *

A downside of me keeping so quiet is hearing everything else march on around me; Growling in the halls, footsteps, the usual as of late, but I’ve also been hearing one of my neighbors coughing. Sounds ragged as beast with a bellyful of quicksilver.

Hate to admit it, but at least the sound would direct any beasts to him instead of me. I don’t think it’s so bad to be grateful for a little insurance.

* * *

Supper is crusty bread with a bowl of thin broth. Might make rice if I’m feeling adventurous tonight, who knows? Haha.

Makes me wish I took up that growing hobby when I had the chance. Thought I had all the time in the world, until I didn’t.

Seeds are edible, yeah? Not sure as to why they wouldn’t be.

* * *

Out of everything I’ve griped about, I’d say the screams are the worst. Light from the fires is ignored with the swish of a curtain. The smells, I can mask. But the constant screaming, the shrieks of women dragged from their homes and monsters burning alive… It’s not something one forgets. You don’t light up a bit of incense and waft the sound out your head. I don’t even have any drink to drown it. Now they ring in my ears long after their jaws and throats cease twitching.

* * *

Stomach pains. Either the bread or broth must’ve been off. Wouldn’t doubt if both weren’t fit for eating, but what choice do I have? Gnaw at what’s left under my nails? My body should understand. It needs to eat to keep going. Nothing good will come of turning my nose up at my only options.

“My body.” I’m not sure why it sounds so strange to say those words. That’s what it is.

Sleep. Going to sleep the pain off. Food can wait until I’m able to stand without reeling.

* * *

I can see the moon. Blood red, hanging low. It’s almost close enough to touch with just the tips of my fingers. It burns through the curtains. Spills silhouettes into my home. Mangled figures shambling across the floor. Their footsteps are too loud. Too close. Too familiar.

* * *

They aren’t beasts.

* * *

I can feel them… can feel it tapping against my skull, hollow. Jabbing at the backs of my eyes. Writhing against the ridges in my brain and in between my thoughts. Thick. Viscous. Noodles in syrup. Curling in my sockets for rest. They are so tired. The hunters must be so, so tired.

Oh, unlucky hunter. Does your stomach hurt as well?

* * *

Bile in my guts swelling swelling so full. Full and tight and nauseous but nothing comes up no matter how many fingers I jam down my throat. Need more nails more sharpness. Just gagging on blood.

* * *

I did not eat the seeds they are not unfurling in my stomach not climbing up my throat and filling my guts with vines it’s not it’s not it’s not.

* * *

Trying to sleep trying to sleep but he’s too loud too close I don’t want them to hear me. He needs to stop breathing it’s drawing the hunters’ attention. So loud. Loud and heavy leaking through the walls. Surely leaking outside as well.

Please be quiet.

* * *

He’s not stopping. They’re going to find him. The hunters will be here they’ll come looking for the source of the noises.

They’ll mistake me for him the hunters will kill me first I know it I always have the worst luck. I’ll be a stain on the rug long before he’s dealt with. A wriggling bloody mess. These hands are sticky enough with my fluids. No more. No more of mine.

* * *

The halls are silent without me, without him. Creaking under my feet under my weight my legs they move towards the sound ever so softly. Too soft to drip outside.

His groaning, heaving drowns my steps, deep like puddles. Sometimes they’re too deep. I lose my footing. These halls are narrow, the walls hold my weight nicely.

Rotting wood under my nails. Caked in blood. Shouldn’t keep dragging them like this but I’ve no choice. My balance is lost otherwise.

Closer. Louder. The sound echoes now, bouncing around me in the most unpleasant way. How has someone not killed you yet?

* * *

Here.

Right here. Through this door. No light from underneath. Plenty of deep breaths. It’s far too late to steady yourself. Do you hear me outside your home? Do you see my smile through that peephole? I’ll smile for you.

It reeks of illness. Stagnant, mixed with dusty air. Thick enough to gag on.

There’s another smell. It’s sweet. Almost intoxicating. It cuts through the stench so clearly, so much different from incense. Nice and smooth and rich. Doesn’t burn the nostrils.

Lovely.

And of no use to a corpse.

* * *

Better him than me better him than me better him than me.

No no no hunters no hunters don’t come here walk faster go round

Inside I must get inside they can’t find me in there if I’m quiet I’ll stay quiet

* * *

INCESSANT HELLISH SHRIEKING FROM THE MOMENT I FORCED THE DOOR OPEN

SPLITTING

SEARING

ACHE BEHIND MY EYES, ACROSS THE TOP OF MY SKULL

SHUT UP

SHUT UP

WE BOTH DON’T HAVE TO DIE JUST SHUT THE HELL UP

* * *

Wet. Wet hands. Wet nails and claws and limbs. Shaking. Not shaking. Shaking again. Haha. Funny little tremors. On and on and on.

Breathe in.

Smell of rot is gone, masked, overwhelmed. Screaming within these walls, gone.

It’s dark. And quiet.

Breathe out.

My fill’s been had. Pain floats outside this body, dangling, hovering just above. Just far enough away.

Tapping begins again, on my head in my head. Around around around. Going in circles. Then back. Further. Closer. Picking up pace. Did I shut my door? Is this my door now?

* * *

Outside. It’s coming from outside my skull, this time, for now.

Interesting. Oohhh, how interesting. This hunter, their smell, their quick steps are all. So. Familiar.

Do come here. These floors are drying.

I will be very careful, with your jaw, unlike his. Flesh torn across the cheeks. No, no, dignified hunter. You work so hard. I am sure you are still hunting for a reason.

Up spiral stairs. Go left. Follow the deep grooves I left along the way here.

Breathe deeply. Don’t choke.

All I ask. Is for you to allow me. Time to lick my wounds. When I am done, will you lend me your ear? Only for a moment. Just a second. There’s so much I’d like to know, from you, in particular. Though, just having you listen to me ramble would be more than good enough. Hear these spilled words or allow them to drip from the side of your face. Put the barrel of your weapon to my lips, let me taste its gunpowder if you must. I would like to be the one making noise for a change.

I will see you very, very soon.


End file.
